


Dark Night of the Soul

by Aini_NuFire



Series: Musketeer Dragon Riders [38]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dragons, Angst, Aramis | René d'Herblay Angst, Dragon Riders, Gen, Hurt d'Artagnan, War, hurt Rhaego
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-16
Updated: 2021-01-16
Packaged: 2021-03-14 08:22:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28792377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aini_NuFire/pseuds/Aini_NuFire
Summary: Interlude: A year into the war with Spain, Aramis is still wrestling with matters of faith while a stranded d’Artagnan struggles to stay alive behind enemy lines.
Series: Musketeer Dragon Riders [38]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1564573
Comments: 2
Kudos: 25





	Dark Night of the Soul

**Author's Note:**

> This is just an interlude one shot between seasons 3 and 4. Set a year into the war with Spain.

The inky blackness of midnight surrounded the small chapel tucked into the corner of the monastery. Scraggly branches scratched and rattled against the stone and windows from outside as a storm brewed. The inner sanctum remained undisturbed, however, candles lit throughout and bathing the room in soft, golden incandescence. Aramis knelt at the base of the dais that held the altar, a rosary clasped tightly in one hand as his lips moved silently, reciting prayers by rote.

It had been his practice for a whole year whenever the nightmares violently woke him in the dead of night and he sought God's presence to beat back the demons that haunted him. Milady was dead, but Aramis could still feel her lingering touch like poison, and in his dreams she retook control of his mind and body and forced him to commit the most atrocious acts. He'd wake and still see the blood of his brothers dripping from his hands.

But no matter how fervently he prayed for mercy, God continued to elude him.

Aramis transitioned from the traditional prayers and began to speak from his heart.

"Will you ever remove this stain from my soul?" he asked desperately. "I have sought you, I have devoted my life to you, and still this taint remains upon me. Am I beyond redemption?"

His voice broke and he crooked his fingers tighter around the rosary, the edges of the cross digging into the meat of his palm. If that was the case, what was he doing here? Tears of anguish pricked at his eyes, but he sucked in a shuddering breath and bowed his head.

"My life is yours," he reaffirmed. He would continue to seek God in the hopes he may yet still find salvation again.

Aramis's shoulders sagged further, the weight of an invisible yoke dragging him down. Remnants of his nightmare flashed before his mind's eye, of Porthos, Athos, and d'Artagnan lying in pools of blood, slain by his own hand. The images were made worse by the very real possibility that his brothers could be lying dead in a battlefield somewhere on the front.

When word of the war had first reached him at the monastery, he had faltered in his resolve, knowing his brothers would be marching to war. Aramis had been a soldier for all of his adult life, and to not be with them now, watching their backs, tore at his heart.

But were he to die on the battlefield himself, he could not say with confidence that his soul would be secured in Heaven. And that was what kept him from forsaking his vow and going after them. He had seen Hell, had lived it, and the thought of returning to that Void left him paralyzed with terror.

And so he'd held firm to his course, remaining at the monastery, seeking absolution, and praying for his loved ones daily and their safe return.

…If God even listened to his prayers anymore.

.o.0.o.

Icy water seeped through d'Artagnan's leathers as he knelt in a puddle and peered through the tall reeds. Torches bobbed in the darkness across the field, and scattering exchanges in Spanish drifted over the too short distance to his ears. He waited, not daring to move, until the party finally started to move on. Then he carefully and slowly backed up, keeping low to the ground. His broken right arm throbbed mercilessly, and keeping it tucked close against his chest was a burden on the abused muscles in his shoulder. But he'd been unable to get his armor off without causing excruciating pain, and given his current position so near the enemy, he thought it best to keep the armor on. He wished he had something he could at least fashion a sling with, but he didn't.

He slogged through the mud toward an outcrop of rocks covered in broken branches of thistle. A hulking mass shifted beneath the foliage, and d'Artagnan quickly dropped down beside it.

"Shh, easy."

Rhaego's eye caught the barest sliver of moonlight in the dark as he lolled it upward, and he let out a pitiful mewl.

D'Artagnan rubbed at the dragon's shoulder soothingly. "Just hang in there. The regiment will be looking for us."

Rhaego closed his eyes and rolled his head to the side. D'Artagnan turned his attention to the dragon's wing. He'd been harpooned during an aerial assault and had gone down behind enemy lines. D'Artagnan was lucky to have survived the crash with only a broken arm.

That had been two days ago, and with Rhaego unable to fly and the area swarming with Spanish soldiers, they'd been trapped. Rhaego's distinctive coloring made it impossible to try to make a stealthy escape on foot.

Ayelet would have blended well with the winter thicket, d'Artagnan thought ruefully. But that was precisely why she was serving as a messenger between regiments rather than flying with d'Artagnan into battle—a white dragon was harder to spot and target in the sky. It had been difficult to convince her at first that d'Artagnan wouldn't be riding her, but she'd accepted it more easily after Rhaego had seemingly volunteered to bear d'Artagnan as his new rider after Aramis had left the Musketeers.

No, d'Artagnan wasn't Rhaego's new rider. They were just…keeping each other company since their regular partners were away.

He couldn't believe they'd been at war for just over a year. It felt like much longer, like an eternity. The relentless battles, taking and losing of ground, campaigns and cannons, dragon fire and blood… D'Artagnan's heart ached for Constance, for home, for a world not waged in war.

A dragon screech echoed through the sky, and a dark shape crossed the crescent moon. There was no way to tell whether it was friend or foe, so d'Artagnan dismissed it. He nestled in close to Rhaego to settle in for yet another night in the muck and mire, waiting for a rescue that might not come.

.o.0.o.

Aramis continued to fervently pray for his brothers, his dragon, all of them. The wind outside howled like a feral banshee, and suddenly the outer door burst in, banging against the wall and letting in gusts of frigid air and rain. The candle flames sputtered under the onslaught.

Aramis scrambled to his feet and rushed to close the doors, but the battering wind pushed back. Horizontal rain slashed across his face like slivers of ice, and he froze where he stood, looking out at the violent display of Nature's tantrum. Lightning split the sky like fractured glass and thunder boomed so loudly that Aramis felt the reverberations deep inside his chest. Some people believed such might was an active manifestation of God's power.

Aramis slowly staggered outside. The lashing rain instantly soaked his shirt and hair. He stumbled against the gale into the middle of the courtyard and turned his gaze heavenward.

"What do you want from me?" he shouted at the sky. "What more? If I am damned, then strike me down here and now and get it over with!"

Lavender spikes forked across the sky in quick succession and thunderclaps shook the air, yet not one branch of lightning arched down to touch the Earth. Freezing rain ran down his cheeks, mixing with hot tears and spilling into his beard. Aramis fell to his knees in the mud.

"Just make it stop," he begged brokenly. He had been bereft for over a year, plagued by his torment, and he just wanted it to stop.

The lightning and thunder abruptly ceased, and the deluge softened into a steady patter. Aramis began to shiver violently, the water having soaked him thoroughly. He stayed on his knees a few moments longer, the rage having drained out of him as swiftly as the brunt of the storm had.

He finally dragged himself to his feet and slogged back into the monastery, shutting the door without resistance. A few candles remained lit, and he trudged over to them, falling before the altar again. He looked up at the carving of Christ on the Cross, the Lord's face shrouded in shadow.

Aramis bowed his head low in despair.

.o.0.o.

D'Artagnan slept fitfully between being on edge for fear of attack and the pain in his arm. The sound of twigs crackling had him jerking fully awake. Rhaego was shuddering next to him, trying to remain as still and silent as possible. They both knew what would happen if they were captured by the enemy.

More branches shifted, scritching against each other. There was no breeze this night. D'Artagnan rose slowly, drawing his parrying dagger with his left hand. He crept forward. The shape moving through the chaparral was too large to be a wild animal and too small to be a dragon. D'Artagnan tightened his fingers around the hilt of his dagger.

As the shapeless blob came closer, he lunged, striking out in the dark. The blade glanced off armor plating. There was a surprised grunt, and then a hand clamped over his broken arm. D'Artagnan cried out as white-hot agony ripped through him and burst across his vision like blazing stars. Another hand clapped over his mouth, muffling his scream.

"D'Artagnan! It's me!" a voice hissed in his ear, the attacker pressing him solidly against a broad chest.

D'Artagnan vaguely registered the familiar baritone, but the hand was still squeezing his broken arm and he whimpered as his legs buckled.

"Shit." The restraining arms moved to catch him, and they both sank to their knees in the mud. "D'Artagnan! Are you injured?"

"Mmph," he mumbled, dropping his head forward against Porthos's chest as he focused on breathing through the waves of pain. "Arm- broken."

"Shit, sorry," Porthos cursed again. "You hurt anywhere else?"

"Not badly. Rhaego's not good, though." He managed to lift his head, Porthos's features still barely discernible in the dark. "That harpoon ripped right through his wing."

"Where is he?"

D'Artagnan cocked his head back toward the rocks, then struggled to get to his feet. Porthos grabbed his uninjured arm and helped haul him up, then followed him over to where Rhaego was still lying, eyes gleaming at them with fear and pain.

"Hey there, boy," Porthos crooned as he removed the shrub covering d'Artagnan had placed over him. "Time to get you two out of here."

"The Spanish are too close," d'Artagnan said. "That's why we haven't tried to move yet."

"We've got it covered," Porthos replied, then cupped his hands around his mouth and sent up a call like an owl.

D'Artagnan waited, but nothing happened. Until a few minutes later when bursts of fire exploded from the sky and struck the ground several kilometers away. Shouts went up from the Spanish troop that had passed this way earlier and must have made camp nearby. A dragon shrieked and a thwack of wings could be heard as it launched into the air.

"Hurry," Porthos urged, turning to go the opposite direction.

D'Artagnan staggered after him, Rhaego lumbering along as well. D'Artagnan had no idea which way they were going, but Porthos seemed to, and the distraction was certainly drawing attention away from their path.

Dawn was bleeding into the sky by the time they finally rendezvoused with the Musketeer regiment. Every head in the camp snapped their way as they emerged from the woodland. Athos strode forward, expression fraught with worry and relief.

"Are you all right?"

"I've been better," he admitted, smiling back. "I knew you'd try to come for us."

Athos's eyes darkened. "I only regret it took us so long."

"We'll live," d'Artagnan assured him, glancing over his shoulder to where Savron and Vrita were hemming Rhaego in as they led him over to the dragon medic. Porthos and Athos unconsciously mirrored them around d'Artagnan as they turned toward the infirmary tent. D'Artagnan wasn't looking forward to having his arm inspected and set.

"Ayelet brought new orders," Athos spoke up after a moment. "We're to march north and cut off the Spanish contingent making inroads there." He paused. "Obviously, you and Rhaego will have to remain at the base camp while your injuries heal."

D'Artagnan dropped his gaze grimly. That was six weeks he'd be out of commission with a broken arm. Probably the same for Rhaego. He hated this, hated having to stay behind, hated being separated from his brothers. This wasn't the first time, nor would it likely be the last in this war that had no end in sight. Once their injuries healed, they would be right back out on the front lines. And d'Artagnan hated it.

But he was a musketeer and he had no choice; he would do his duty. They all would.

And just as his brothers had come for him, d'Artagnan had to have faith that they would come back from this latest campaign as well.

.o.0.o.

Aramis woke groggily to sunlight lancing across his face, and he blinked in confusion as he raised his head off the floor. He must have fallen asleep at the altar. The storm had passed and brilliant shards of golden rays were pouring through the windowpanes.

Aramis straightened, back stiff and knees aching down to the bone. His clothes were still damp and his trousers slick with drying mud. His hand spasmed, and he looked down to see it was still crooked tightly in a fist. He prized his fingers open to release the rosary, the cross having left sharp imprints in his skin.

His gaze was automatically drawn upward to the depiction of Christ whose own hands bore the nails of the Cross. A single beam of light shone upon Jesus's anguished face, his eyes raised toward Heaven. Aramis sat there on the floor in silence, wrung out by the night's storm, both without and within. He felt calmer, though…less hollow than he'd felt every morning since that horrific day in an old abandoned church desecrated by evil.

Aramis finally pushed himself to his feet and headed outside to begin his morning chores. There was quite a bit of debris left by the storm, so he first set to clearing away fallen branches and inspecting the outbuildings for damage. They had been fortunate.

With that done, he got down on his hands and knees in the vegetable garden to clear away soggy leaves and check if any of the squash were ready to be picked. There were many mouths to feed at the monastery, not just those of the brothers who resided there but also the orphans that ended up on their doorstep. And the longer the war went on, the more lost children came to their flock needing care.

The abbot crossed the courtyard toward him, arms folded in the sleeves of his robe. "You did not break fast with us this morning," he said.

"There was a lot to clean up after the storm," Aramis replied.

"And was any progress made?"

Aramis kept his gaze on the garden. He knew the abbot was speaking of more than just the natural storm. Father Emanuelli had been patient with him from the day he first arrived, gently guiding him when Aramis sought his advice but otherwise leaving him to grasp for answers in the dark on his own.

"I am still here," Aramis said evenly.

"So you are. Though not if you insist on trying to catch cold. Your fingers are blue."

Aramis glanced down at his hands and curled them into fists. He was so numb most of the time on the inside that any outer chill hardly registered. He finally lifted his gaze to the abbot's. "I have spent countless nights in prayer. I have fasted, I have read every word of the Bible several times over. And still I have found no answers. Or peace."

"God tests those who devote their life to him."

"For how long?" Aramis rejoined, some of last night's anguish stirring again.

"How long does it take for fire and pressure to create a diamond?" the abbot replied.

Aramis huffed and turned his attention back to the gardening.

"You believe God is punishing you," Father Emanuelli spoke up again a moment later.

"No," he said ardently. "I am…lost. And I do not understand why he will not show me the way back."

"Perhaps because he values the seeking more than the destination." The abbot turned as though to leave, but then paused and said, "You may have lost your way, Aramis, but God has not lost you. Whatever path he has you on for whatever reason, do not doubt his presence. The question is, can you find peace in the face of no answers?"

With that, he did walk back to the refectory.

Aramis rocked back on his haunches. After everything, he was still here, in mind, body…and soul, however battered it was. Could he find peace in the seeking alone? Without confirmation that he was yet saved?

Wasn't that how his faith had started in the first place? He had been taught of God and all he was and had reckoned it to be truth, without a single shred of tangible proof.

Aramis roved his gaze around the monastery. He had been living and serving here for over a year, but he had mostly been going through the motions. His heart hadn't been in it because his heart was in pieces, and he'd spent countless hours in fervent prayer, waiting for a sign that he'd been restored to who he once was. Like after Savoy.

But maybe there was no going back this time, maybe there was just this moment, this simple task, offered up in humble servitude. And in faith that it was accepted.

God had not struck him down last night. God had not left him bound to the darkness. Perhaps that was enough.

Aramis bent back to his work, changing his prayers to ones of silent thanksgiving—for the food the soil delivered, for the dawn, for the little children in their care who despite all the horrors they had been through still knew how to laugh and play.

And Aramis sent up prayers of gratitude for his friends and the many times they had saved him in the past.

He thanked God for his life, and reaffirmed his vow to make the most of it here in service to him.

The sun shone down on Aramis, and he turned his face into it. For a moment, he felt that just maybe, there was a glimmer of that peace that surpasses all understanding. It was not wholly out of reach to him.

Every dark night comes with a break of day.

**Author's Note:**

> NEXT TIME
> 
> Stolen gunpowder leads the musketeers to a monastery where the bandits have taken refuge. And they meet up with an old friend along the way.


End file.
